“Did she? Turn to you with love?”

He was silent for a moment and then slowly nodded his head. “Yes, in her fashion, she did. It took some time, and I think that what she was doing, the therapy and all that, must have helped. I thought we might be able to repair things and start to live again. So some years passed. She completed her training and was certified as a Jungian analyst. I applied for jobs in the States, and the U.K., and so forth. I published a number of articles on international law that were well received and gave me a small reputation in this field. And then the American came to our flat. This was in 1987, late in the year. Or, at least, I assume he was an American; I only heard his voice in the foyer. So I am waiting there in our living room, and Sonia comes in with tears in her eyes, and says, Oh, Farid, he’s alive! Theo is alive! This man had apparently found you in Afghan i stan. Of course I was full of questions. Tears were in my eyes too. I wanted to rush out and question this man, whoever he was, but she stopped me; she said I must not tell anyone about this. It was a condition.”

“A condition?”

“Yes, the gentleman in question had told her he could arrange to have you taken from Afghan i stan provided the whole thing was kept completely dark.”

“And you went along with that?”

“It was not a question of going along. Before I could say two words, she had taken her coat and disappeared from the flat. The next time I heard from her it was two months later, and she was calling from Washington, and she had you with her. So I forgave her that as well, and we made a life for ourselves here in this city, although she cannot bear to be with me for more than a few months at a time.”

“But she stays married to you. That’s something to think about.” As I said that I was wondering, Who was the American in Zurich in 1987? It was something I planned to ask Sonia, if and when I got to see her again.

“Yes!” said Farid. “She does love me, in her way. When she’s here, when we travel, she gives me the fullness of her presence, and it’s only then that I feel truly alive. When she’s gone, when I’m here alone, being looked after by a housekeeper and eating my meals in restaurants, I say to myself, Farid, you are keeping a hawk; don’t expect her to lay eggs like a chicken.”

“You could get another wife. It’s one of the advantages of the true faith.”

My father shrugged and smiled a little sheepishly. “Yes, I could, but I am too modern for that. I’m almost as deracinated as you. Tell me, do I seem different to you, since this all started?”

“Yes. You seem like a completely different person.”

“I feel like a different person. I find it hard to concentrate on my classes; I can no longer participate in university politics and all that rubbish. I ask myself why, and I can only arrive at one answer. At last the call has come! She needs my help. I feel that this is what I was meant for, my purpose on earth. You know, sometimes I feel as if I am one of those insect species where the male is tiny and the female gigantic. He lives for one single act, and when it is over he dies. But who knows what he feels in his brief moment of importance? Perhaps it is a concentrated ecstasy that, if translated into human terms, would rival the satisfactions of an unusually long and extraordinarily sensual life.”

He stared at me, trying to read what was in my eyes. He asked, “You don’t think this is perverse? To risk everything, perhaps even prison, for this?”

“No, I feel exactly the same way,” I answered, “and I’ve spent a lot less time with her than you have. It’s just Sonia. Also, sometimes you have to do crazy things for love.”

He smiled then, a kind of smile I don’t recall ever seeing on my father’s face. He said, “Yes, at long last we’re both turning into Sufis. I expect your mother will be quite pleased.”

And then, after a second or so, we both laughed like maniacs for a good long time.

11

M ahmoud has waited in the lee of the wall outside the building, squatting, patient as a hound. When Sonia crawls out the door, he lets out a startled cry, picks her up in his arms, and carries her into the hujra, but not to the room she once shared with Annette Cosgrove. Instead she is taken to a somewhat larger room, which had once been the eating hall of the village inn. It seems to Sonia that all the captives have been assembled there and there is a stir among them as the guard brings her in and lays her carefully on a charpoy. When he leaves they all gather around her, all talking at once. Annette Cosgrove reaches her first, sees the condition of her feet, and cries out for water and cloths. She shouts at the others in a firm nurse’s voice that Sonia has not heard her use before, telling them to go away and let Sonia breathe.

Annette bathes Sonia’s feet, her touch professionally gentle, her movements efficient. She smears an ointment on the torn soles, and says, “I’m sorry, that must hurt.”

“What is it?”

“Neosporin. We always travel with a medical kit, and I asked for it when they brought me in here. I said I would take care of their people too. Look at me, please. Have you had a concussion?”

“No. I fainted when they whipped my back.”

“Let’s take a look at it,” says Annette. She helps Sonia off with her kameez, and peels back the bandages, after which she gives a small cry. “Oh, Jesus!”

“That bad?”

“Well, it may look worse than it is. You lost a lot of skin, but there doesn’t seem to be any suppuration. Let me ban dage you up again.”

When she is done with this and Sonia’s shirt is back in place, Annette says, “I don’t know, I’d be howling if I had a back like that. Either you’re incredibly stoic or… you’re sure they didn’t hit your head?”

“I’m fine, Annette. I had a religious experience. The pain is still there but it’s not… engaging? It’s hard to describe.”

She looks around the little room. The group members are keeping their distance, but they are all watching her. She asks, “Is everyone here all right? Dr. Schildkraut?”

“He’s fine, except for his bronchitis. The others… physically, they’re all fine. A little smelly, maybe, but all healthy so far.” A pause. Sonia is conscious of all the eyes on her and knows why. She’s been outside, she’s seen other faces, heard other voices, they are all dying for news of the rest of the world, even news from a village street. Well, she has news.

At last, Annette blurts out their desire. “What’s happening? Did they tell you anything?”

“Yes, and we all need to hear this.” She lifts herself up and gestures to the others and immediately the eight prisoners surround her, pressing close, kneeling or standing, or sitting on another charpoy hastily dragged over. Sonia is reminded of a baroque altarpiece: disciples surrounding a dying saint, their attention rapt.

She gives it to them straight. She has spoken to the man in charge. He has expressed interest in the conference and insists that they proceed here, but the threat made on the video is literal. On any day when there are civilian casualties in the so-called war on terror, Alakazai will execute one hostage. And Sonia herself is to choose each victim.

There is a silence, broken by Schildkraut. “Sonia, that is monstrous. You cannot possibly do such a thing, selecting the victims-”

“I don’t think any of it is voluntary, Professor,” says Ashton, and they all begin talking at once until Amin shouts for everyone to be quiet and enforces his demand by banging on the brass breakfast tray with a metal spoon.

“Thank you,” he says, when they have settled down. “There is no need to lose our heads-in the figurative sense at least. Now, as to our situation. Obviously, we are at the mercy of this man, Alakazai, who clearly has no mercy at all. But we are not entirely helpless. We can at least relieve Sonia of this impossible responsibility by selecting the order of execution ourselves, in advance. We can draw straws-”